


Land and Sea

by PandyMilkovich



Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Bi-Polar Disorder, Dreams, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-10-11
Updated: 2015-10-11
Packaged: 2018-04-25 22:50:38
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,356
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4979683
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PandyMilkovich/pseuds/PandyMilkovich
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian dreams he is surfing. Inspired by a conversation I had with Karen, pink_ink on ao3. And also (loosely) inspired by her amazing fic, Like the Ocean (read it!!)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Land and Sea

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd. All mistakes are mine.

He was at the beach. He had never been there, but it felt like he had. Dreaming. He was definitely dreaming. 

The hot sand beneath his feet burned like a hot plate on his hand. He didn't like that. He trekked down further, walking seemed hard on land. The effort it took to tread through the sand was exhausting. He didn't mind the feeling of the sand seeping through his toes, though. It tingled between them, but when he picked it up the feeling was gone, only for it to happen again when he placed his foot back down. That was annoying, he just wanted the feeling forever. It still burned, and the grains were almost rough as they brushed against his skin. The land was hurting him. 

He made it down to the water's edge. The sand was cooler, relief hitting his feet like a zephyr in a stagnant summer. He looked out at the mass in front of him, endless, so it seemed. His eyes looked further and further, but it went on. Never ending. He felt familiar with it, like he knew it, he didn't. He had never seen an ocean a day in his life, at least not like this. 

The imagine was fuzzy around the edges. Then the noises filtered in. The squawking of seagulls above him, chanting, then echoing through the sky. The water crashed down in front of him. Thundering to the ground, breaking the earth beneath it. Water splashed up, he tasted the salt on his lips. He felt the quench on his skin when the water hit it. Cooling him down, refreshing his body, clearing his mind. The ocean didn't seem so bad.

Small fragments of shells flew up and stabbed at his feet. He winced, tiny daggers danced on top of his foot. He didn't like the land.

The water rushed his feet, drowning them, before receding back to where it belongs. The sand glided by, trying to bury him there. His feet sank into the ground. The land was trying to anchor him. He picked his feet up out of the wet cemented sand. He didn't want to be there, not on the land that held all his problems. 

He gazed out to the sea again. Sets of waves never ending. Three at a time. Over and over again. Beyond the swells, though, it was placid. Calm as can be. He felt himself take a breath, longing to join the blue. He didn't know the water, didn't understand it, but he wanted to. Wanted to join the sway and rock of the water, settling his body. He understood the ocean, he thought. 

He glanced next to him and a longboard appeared. He had never surfed. He was dreaming, though, and he thought in dreams you could do anything. 

The sounds around him tunneled. The waves, the birds, the wind; all of it seemed distant. He couldn't touch it or find its source. He picked up the board, heavy in his hand. It was awkward to hold under his arm. The wide body made it almost impossible to grip. His fingers fought to stay in place as the sweat built on his palms. _Slipping away, slipping away._

He took a step, inching closer and closer to the angry break. It seemed intimidating, but it wasn't. The waves were loud, endless and rough, but not scary. He figured he'd just have to get past them, but how? He didn't know. 

He was in the water up to his shins, and laid the board on the surface. The ocean held it there. It didn't sink. The ocean is nice. Everything weightless, floating above the troubles on the bottom. 

The drop came, surprising Ian. His feet slid down, dropping him down to the bottom. Suddenly he was waist deep. He adjusted his body, getting his bearings. He placed a hand on the board, not wanting it to drift. The board was his only ally out there. Nothing else to tie him back to land. No line or pull. Just him and a board escaping from the hot, trudging sand.

He felt it. The cool feeling of the water waking up his hot skin. Refreshing tingles rushed through his insides. _Spark. Cold. Alive._ He liked the ocean. He felt something. 

He awkwardly climbed on the board, just in time because there's a wave. His chest tightened. The cool rush turned to heat, his insides thumping. _What do I do, what do I do?_

He ducked the nose of the board down, under the tunnel he went. His hair pulled back by the force of the water rushing by. His scalp tingled and he could have shivered, but the ocean wouldn't allow it. His hands gripped tightly at the sides of the board, holding it down. _Under the water. Under the water. Where's the surface?_ A small panic hit as he felt the underbelly of the wave tickle his back, but also holding him down with its strength. Was he trapped? The wave rolled on, and suddenly he was on top of the water again. _Paddle. Paddle. Paddle._ His arms hurt. 

He could see the next set trying to form in the distance. There was no height, no arch, no barrel had formed. They were tiny swells, like wide bumps on a winding road _. Paddle. Paddle. Paddle._ His arms ached, heavy hanging from his shoulder. He kept going. Beyond the set, over the bump. _Sway_. 

He folded his arms in front of him, still on his stomach, he rested his head. The tight muscles of his arms relaxing. There was the sound of water slapping the bottom of his board. Small swell, up he went, slapped down on water. The breeze picked up, and he turned his head to see the land. Nothing. How far out was he? Not too far, he still heard the shore break. _Crash_. 

_I'm not Monica._

Where'd that come from? The thought broke on the land. Loud and angry. Crash, splash, spray, daggers. It marked the ground. The land was being punished. _Not Monica_. Then it slowing sucked back into the ocean, dragging pieces of the land with it. 

Like the wave, the thought trickled back. Quietly; a whisper.

He flipped over on the board. The water betraying him, reminding him of what he was paddling away from. He looked to the sun for a reprieve. 

He closed his eyes and felt the rays dance on his skin, sending the goosebumps back into hiding. _Warm_. The sun around him lit up the ripples of water, glistening, reflecting the warmth and radiating around hin. He wished he could look down at this. See himself floating peacefully, twinkling lights around him. He grazed his fingertips in the water. _Swoosh_ , through his fingertips. It was easy, fluid. Not like the hot, rough sand, it was whimsical. _Dazed_.

It was quiet. Maybe it was too quiet. He didn't think he minded, though. Not with the way the board softly rocked him, it was nurturing. It cared about him. _Sway. Swoosh. Float. Relax._

For a moment he wondered what was beneath him. This tiny board was all that separated him from the unknown beneath it. Sharks, maybe. Crabs chomping his feet, he'd never know because he won't touch the bottom. A rip tide, sucking him back, whirling him around, out of control. He didn't know the ocean. What is the ocean capable of?

He glanced at the land again, just a thin line. _Squinting. Turning. Looking._ Where is it? He shrugged. Back down on the board. The sun. His shoulders flush with the board, fingers stopped twitching. Tranquil.  

The sun is gone. That was fast. The change in the sky like a light switch. A cloud barrels in, taking power over the sun's effect. The billowing black takes over without warning. A whipping wind brushes over his body. _Shiver. Tremble. Tense._ He stiffens, body tight from the surprise chill. He looks for the land. It was warm there. Hot sand beneath him. 

He noticed his hands are salt dried, rubbing them together lightly. _Dry. Chapped. Burned_. He's dried out. The water is wet, but salty. Moisture then drought. He didn't know that. 

More clouds come. One. Two. Three. Black and angry, gray and gloomy. _The sky controls the tide._ The glassy water is disturbed. Swells are bigger. Stronger. Taller. The board rocks, he's lost his balance. The tide gains speed. Is he drifting further or closer to land? 

Paddle. It hurts. Is he even going anywhere? The sun has made him tired. His stomach is hollow and growling. Why? 

The thunder bellows in the sky. The ocean went from sway to rock to ruin. He can't keep up. Where is the land? _Paddle. Paddle. Paddle. No where. Stuck._ Drifting further and further. He doesn't know how to fight the ocean. He doesn't know how to control the ocean. He knows the land. He misses the land. 

He understood the hot sand, the rough shells. Warmed by the sun, broken by the feet. He knew the land. He doesn't know the ocean. 

His head spins. Trapped. He's trapped in a never ending mass and can't get home. He feels his stomach try to crawl up and suffocate him, he can't breath. His heart pounds. How do you escape the ocean when the sky is in control? There is no where to stand, no where to go. The land is the only ground there is. 

 

**

 

 _Gasp. Blink. Glance_. His room. He's in his room. His heart is beating fast, and his mouth is dry. His hands are sweating, not salted. He wasn't really in the ocean. He looks over and sees Mickey sleeping. 

Mickey's back gently rising and falling. Like the soft swells of a ocean. Ian moves slowly, hovers his hand over Mickey's back. He places it there, just a hush of a touch. Mickey wouldn't wake up, couldn't feel it. His hand rides the calm tide of Mickey's back. Up and down; soothing. There's not slap of water or harsh noises. He feels the heat radiating off Mickey; the sun. Warming him up, sending a spark down his nerve endings, relaxing his body. Peaceful. 

Ian rolls into Mickey, wraps his arm around him and searches for his hand. Laced together, they're calloused and rough; the sand. Slotting together, it feels nice. Mickey's hand seeps into his, molding and making a welcomed heat. He doesn't have to let go though, doesn't have to repeat. It stays. Stays like this, it's not hard to hold Mickey's hand, doesn't take work. 

The land is complicated, the land has problems. Ian doesn't like the land, but he knows it. 

Mickey's breath deepens, Ian stiffens. He rolls over, looking at Ian with his crystal blue eyes. 

"You alright?" His raspy voice a solace to Ian. 

"Yeah, fine." Ian is still detached, almost feels like he's still drifting. 

Mickey's hand skates up along his jaw, grazing his cheek, then settles behind his ear. He leans in, pressing their lips together. Not rough, not like the wave meeting the land. Tranquil. The kiss is small, not long, packed with emotion, then they break. 

Mickey inches closer, wrapping around Ian. His leg hitched over Ian's. Arms casing him in. Mickey's head nuzzles into the crook of his neck. Ian thought he'd feel constricted, expecting to panic, but it never arrives. Mickey's an anchor, holding him to land making sure he won't drift too far.

Ian's eyes shift to the nightstand. A small orange bottle comes into focus. It's not fuzzy around the edges; clear. The bottle that he has tried to forget, tried to get rid of, lose, flush, it remained. It reappeared every time, just waiting. He leans forward. 

"Why?" Mickey groans, half annoyed about being disturbed. Ian smirks.

"Gotta take my meds."

Mickey presses his lips lazily to Ian's neck, a dab a moisture joining the gesture. Ian can feel a small smile imprinting on his skin, and let's one form on his face as well. 

"What made ya change your mind?" Mickey asked, trying to sound tired. Ian knew he was too interested in what happened to ever sleep without the answer. 

Ian doesn't know how to explain it. How to say his mind is the ocean and he doesn't know the ocean. Doesn't exactly know how to word that the land is the problem, but he'd rather be there. Can't explain how Mickey is the line that let's him have both, but he deserves better.

"Afraid I'll drift away if I don't," he answers quietly, not even sure if he heard it himself. 

Mickey raises his head. Ian expects confusion, misunderstanding, or criticism, but it's not there. Mickey's face is soft, his eyes full, and Ian can feel his heart hammering against his chest. 

"I'd never let ya." Mickey leans in again to kiss Ian. This time it's deeper. 

Ian's hand presses against Mickey's back, pulling him in closer. He feels Mickey's hand traveling up his back, leaving chills in its wake. His fingers fan out and card through the red hair, his scalp prickling at the touch. Mickey shifts, Ian tries to chase his lips. The bottle is clutched in his free hand, and his lips meeting Mickey's again. 

Ian can hear Mickey fish around the nightstand, hand slapping it frantically. Ian laughs. 

"Not when Carl's in the room," he says with only an inch of space between their lips.

Mickey pulls back, his lips in a tight line, and tosses something at Ian. "Water, asshole." The bottle lands between them, the contents swishing inside. "But when he leaves," he adds with a smile. Ian shakes his head, biting back the smile that's trying to fight to the surface. He swallows down the pills, and lays back down. 

They face each other, Ian getting lost looking in Mickey's eyes. Endless and blue. Mickey settling back in close to Ian. Ian works through the side effects of the medication, like a rip tide within him, but settles. He grips Mickey's hand and soon the tide passes. He drifts back to sleep holding onto his anchor. 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading!


End file.
